


Riven

by Emmithar



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Dutch isn't very good, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, Just Dutch - other characters metioned, Micah is terrible, Post-Chapter 6: Beaver Hollow (Red Dead Redemption 2)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-17 22:09:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29599476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emmithar/pseuds/Emmithar
Summary: It was bitterly cold on that mountain.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 23





	Riven

**Author's Note:**

> Just a thought I had in my head that I needed to get out. A bit darker than what I usually write, though not too bad, I think.

It was bitterly cold on that mountain.

Even the sun, brilliant in its golden rays that debuted above the far off hills, did little to chase away the frigidity that had all but settled in his bones. He doubted that it would, given how empty he was inside.

He felt hollow; numb.

Riven.

Torn in two; those parts long scattered, lost to the wind with no hope of recovery. There was no coming back from this, he knew. He'd played the long game; each move carefully planned. Countermoves introduced when those plans failed, time and time again. One after another until there was nothing left. Each of his pieces gone; there was nothing more for him to sacrifice.

He was on his own.

Just him.

The notion stirring something hidden deep down inside of him. Fear, he realized dully.

He was afraid.

He hadn't been on his own; not since he was all but fifteen years of age, unknowing of the world and all the injustice heavily imbued within society. He'd left with nothing more than a dream, a wisp of a promise that spurred him on, despite the derision and contempt that all but spewed from the wretch who had that audacity to call herself his mother.

Perhaps her insistence of his failure had been the driving force behind his decisions.

Perhaps it was his own assurance in his success.

He could no longer remember.

Those thoughts long marred with harsher memories of those first few months spent on his own. Cold and miserable and thoroughly depressed. Taking to drink with what little meager gains he earned. A feeble promise he'd do better the next day. Avoiding the dismal reality that perhaps he wasn't as well off as he'd like to admit.

Then he'd met _him_.

A man near ten years his senior who'd seemed ripe for the picking. A fool easily swindled. Only for Dutch to discovered he'd been the fool just as well. Caution might have been the wisest thing; but they'd become fast friends. Pooling resources, their strengths covering for each other weaknesses. Safety in numbers. Those numbers growing as the years went by. Into something large. Formidable. Each of them entwined to another. Indentured.

A lone wolf didn't survive long on its own, after all.

The thought ticking away in his brain. How he missed him.

Oh Hosea...

What'd he give to hear the man one more time. To have him by his side as he ambled down this wretched mountain. For the man to call him a fool, and rightly so. Because he'd lost everything.

The last remnants of his past withering away on the mountaintop behind him. The last good part of him-bloodied and bruised and thoroughly broken. An empty shell of who he used to be. The thought sitting with him, sticky like molasses.

Leaving him had been hard. He hadn't a choice-the man far too gone to save. As though there was _anything_ left too save. Arthur no longer the man he knew.

When had it all gone so wrong?

The man who'd been like a son to him, gone astray. Lost somewhere along the way and he hadn't even noticed.

A pretty little lie he liked to tell himself.

Because he _had_ noticed. Arthur's reluctancy to follow orders, his unwillingness to trust cropping up time and time again. _Something_ had gotten in the man's head. Had changed him. And Dutch had just watched. He had let it happen. 

Rather than  _doing._

Doing what, he wasn't sure. _Something_. If only he had been firmer. If only he had put an end to his doubt, his...unruliness. Kept him in line like Micah had suggested.

Micah...

The man's name sour on his tongue. Stirring something dark and ugly deep inside him. Dutch coming to a stop, faltering. New thoughts quickening, racing, nearly drowning him.

A revelation long in coming.

He'd been played like a fool. The man careful with his moves, plucking the strings and making him dance like a damn puppet. Driving the gang to their own demise for his own edacious gain. Taking away everything he held dear.

Had he been talking?

Dutch could still hear those breathless words, ragged and desperate. The blood was still fresh on his shoes. Flecks coughed up while Arthur lay at his feet, desperate for him to believe. Reminding him, how he'd given him everything. Dutch, for once in his life, speechless. Shame welling inside him as he left.

He couldn't stay.

Couldn't watch him in his final moments. Micah's pleas echoing hollowly in his ears as he wandered, lost and stricken. Mind racing. Thoughts cascading through him like rapids. 

Had Micah finished him?

Had John truly made it?

And what of Bill and Javier? He hadn't seen them...not for a while. The trio of them, split up in all this chaos.

He wondered, too, about Susan. His first love. Love long lost, darkened into something foul and bitter these past days. Had she died the moment Micah pulled the trigger? Or had she too, withered away in the same manner as Arthur?

Lastly, he wondered what was left for him now.

So lost and alone like he had been those many years ago. Far older, though none the wiser. Far more desolate, far more broken. He wanted, more than anything, to go home. To surround himself in comfort and sleep away this dreariness that had all become his reality.

But there was no home. Not anymore.

There'd be no fire, no comfort. No joviality or beers broken over rousing songs. No plans, no schemes, no music serenading the rhythm of dance. No press of warm bodies in the dark of night. No telling of stories-all that gone. Lost-nothing more than whispers of echos. Better days long gone.

And all it due to _him._

And Micah had paid no recompense for it. No restitution. Dutch doubted the man even had moral qualms for all he'd done. Apathy all but a foreign language to him. Far too focused on surviving. Doing whatever it took. Sacrificing all others in his way. That anger burning bright in Dutch.

He could still fix this.

The thought sudden, striking him quick like a snake. Fangs sunk deep into his subconscious, refusing to let go. The idea, blossoming like poison racing through his body.

Micah had caused all this. Had fouled the water with his stench. Sickened them all and destroyed everything he held dear.

_Everything._

That would change. The determination weak, a newly hatched fledgling who hadn't the strength to fly. But he'd get there. He damn well would get there. Dutch feeling stronger now than he had in months.

Confident.

He felt the warmth of the sun, caressing his face. He turned away, the golden rays sweeping across his back.

West.

He was going west.

Just like he should have all those months ago.


End file.
